


a letter never written

by mystayn



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Oneshot, another soft one, bang chan - Freeform, imagine, love letter, soft, stray kids - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 11:26:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16973736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mystayn/pseuds/mystayn
Summary: you decide to write a letter to your boyfriend, chan.





	a letter never written

**Author's Note:**

> i think i suck at dialogue and thus subconsciously avoid them

Dear Channie,  
…

Then what? I sighed. I’d probably come back to it tomorrow, again. Just like the last few times I tried. How can it be this hard to write a simple letter to my boyfriend? I mean, it’s not like I didn’t have anything to write about, it’s just that I didn’t know how. I wanted this letter to atleast try to express even a fraction of my thoughts on how much I appreciated Chan and his entire existence and how, to me, he was the literal sun but it didn’t work. Even after days, the pen produced no words and the notebook grew thinner with every crumpled-up draft. 

The thing is, Chan isn’t someone you can just describe through sweet words like ‘sweet’ and ‘cute’. Don’t get me wrong, he’s both and more but I don’t just think about him in those terms. There are other things, hidden parts of him, small things that matter more to me. I like him, love him, because he’s Chan but how on earth am I supposed to put that on paper, let alone pass that along to him?

Chan is… the way he comes up to me at lunch and swings his chair around to sit on it backwards.

Chan is… the tiny little scrolls he writes during class and secretly hands me, hidden inside the lids of pens. I never know if this time it’ll be i love you or another bad pun. But what I love more is how his eyes light up in anticipation as I slowly unravel the scroll, the hardly-contained quiet giggles that slip out of him when he sees my face because this time it’s actually four bars of rap he wrote about how he's hungry.

Chan is… the way he sometimes suddenly glances at me, leans down so his eyes are looking right into mine and pushes my glasses up using his finger, and sometimes his nose. And then smiles like he’s in on some inside joke, like a little kid staying up two minutes past his bedtime, that I don’t understand. Or the way he’ll just raise the back of his hand to meet my cheek for a fraction of a second with a feather-light touch. Sometimes I can’t resist the urge to turn my face towards his hand and nestle into his palm so I don’t. I don't resist the urge because I love the softness that takes over his features as he adjusts his fingers and traces faint lines along my cheek with his thumb.

But Chan is also the moments he himself doesn't know about, sometimes even he doesn’t see the moments of him being Chan, moments that only I see. He never sees himself fall asleep almost every morning on the bus because he pulled yet another all-nighter, much more common than a night’s sleep when it comes to him. He doesn’t see how his eyes struggle to stay open so he can keep talking to me until his head droops and he can’t help but succumb to the hours of work under the cover of darkness catching up to him. But he’s also the days when he does get enough sleep and his smile is brighter than (and warms me up way more than) the morning sun ever could. He’s the way he smiles when he glances at my house, on his way to pick me up for a date but he doesn’t know that I'm watching from the window, always with a smile to mirror his own.

And there are the moments. The instances I like to store in a little folder, in my memory, called moments. I remember creating the folder the first time he took 5 minutes to just hold my hands. Not because he was nervous (even though he was and I know because I saw the hint of pale pink rise from his cheeks to his ears) but because he traced every part of my hand, parts I never even thought could feel this way before he ran his fingers, over my fingers, every fingertip, outlining each line on my palm as if he was running his fingers over a map he needed to memorise before he could call it home. A home he never lets go of even when sometimes I don’t make sense to myself.

There’s another folder of moments in my memory somewhere if you look delve deep enough. They’re the more hidden ones that I’ll never tell anyone about but they give me butterflies everytime I reimagine them. The times when it’s just his forehead against mine, wrapped up in each others’ warmth, sharing the same breath, focused solely on the mere presence of one another. Or when he does nothing but cup my face with soft hands and traces it with his nose, leaving behind only ghosts of the lightest butterfly kisses, leaving them to build homes in my memory.

It’s in those moments that I feel like Chan understands me more than I can ever want anyone else to, unaided by my words. Maybe that’s why I can’t write that letter. Chan knows what I feel just as much as I do because we feel the same warmth, we share this one bubble we both call home. Maybe I don’t have to write him a letter. Maybe the best thing I can give him right now are the memories.

**Author's Note:**

> again, something i mostly wrote on a public transport, this time the subway


End file.
